


It's What's For Breakfast

by anonymous_sibyl



Category: Wanted (2005)
Genre: Character of Color, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-02
Updated: 2005-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_sibyl/pseuds/anonymous_sibyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a different way of starting their day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's What's For Breakfast

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through "The Promise of Darkness." Section titles are lyrics by Saliva.
> 
> This work is licensed under a [Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/us/). None of the media or characters written about in my fanfiction belong to me and I make no profit from these works. 

** _was it wasted time and was it all for nothing_ **

While he jerks-off in the shower, he thinks about Lucinda, about the edge of her jaw, a flash of blonde hair draped over his thighs, the backs of her knees and the palms of her hands. He's in a hurry, running late and half thinking about the asshole he _will_ take down today, and the crimes he's committed should be making Connie soft, but Lucinda's enough to keep him hard and, anyway, he's had a career's worth of practice at using sex, anger, and booze to keep the bad stuff far at the back of his mind.

He's still thinking about her when he grabs what passes for his breakfast, coffee in a paper cup bearing a convenience store logo and a doughnut that's probably been sitting on the shelf too long. Lucinda has great hands, beautiful skin, and she made fresh coffee every morning and handed it to him in a daisy yellow cup before pressing a kiss to his forehead. He used to grumble at her, brush her away, because then his mind was fully on the job and bright hair and bright flowers distracted him, made him weak.

This coffee is shit, it burns his stomach when it hits, and nothing looks like flowers anymore.

 

** _throwin' my matches atop of a gasoline package_ **

It's been a month, month and a half, and he's still thinking about it, about how it felt when it rolled over him, about the anticipation he felt when he had to snort that shit because he's a good cop and it's his job. His hands are shaking and it's no bullshit after-effects, it's fucking desire. He wants to do it again and every damn morning he hopes he'll get the chance. Take down the fuckers and get fucked up.

_"And how's that different from your everyday?"_

Because his everyday is all about pretending he doesn't want to throw his badge down in the middle of the night, grab a bike from impound, and spend the rest of his life breaking heads, getting high, and fucking the easiest girls he can find. Because if his everyday isn't pretending all that, it's pretending he didn't bang the Golden Princess Lucinda all the while knowing both she and he were thinking about Connie and how much it would hurt him to find out and just how fucking good it would feel to be noticed for once.

Yeah, Eddie Drake's everyday is one short road leading straight to a grave nobody visits and he really doesn't give a damn.

 

** _everything seems fine and dandy here in tinseltown for now_ **

Cinnamon Toast Crunch, heavy on the milk, Mountain Dew, and a handful of M&amp;Ms. Food is fuel and junk food is uberfuel. The real breakfast is in the websites: CNN, BBC, Gamespot, and a few sites he shouldn't be able to access, but can anyway. Guild Wars on the laptop and TIVOed Adult Swim. It takes ten or so minutes to check his email, setting the forum responses aside for later and reading anything personal. There's not anything personal, at least nothing he wants to read.

Somebody's getting married, somebody's having a baby, and Rodney can't very well send out announcements about the pedophile they arrested last week and the little girl who got home safe, so he doesn't respond at all. He's proud of it, though, proud as can be, because he's doing what he's supposed to do. He's making a difference. And, damn, the toys are enough to make a man grin all day long. It's like playing GI Joe out in the yard with his cousins, only he's got the real deal tech and it's way more fun.

If he's effected at all by the empty room beyond his screen or by the phone that doesn't ring except for work, his smile doesn't betray it. He sends an email to his mom, tells her he's doing fine, then puts his empty bowl and spoon in the sink. Time enough for all this later, right now he's got things to do.

 

** _cause one hand is on the bible and the other's in shit_ **

He believes, more than any of them will ever understand, and that's what makes it all so hard to comprehend. He doesn't think he's God's holy angel here on Earth, battling evil with his flaming sword, but he does think he's doing something special. Something right. He's catching the sinners and catching himself before he sins.

Jimmy sees his eyes staring back from the face of every criminal he arrests. The only difference between him and them is that he's given himself over to a higher power and they've given in to the fall. He will never fall. That's why every time he gets pushed he gets right back up again. It's been that way since he was seven and it will be that way until he dies.

Every now and again he closes himself up in his room and he prays. He asks why things are the way they are, why people do the things they do, and if it would have been okay for him to kill if he had killed in the name of his God. He'd pick up the fiery blade, were it offered to him, and maybe it has been. One of these mornings he'll get an answer, until then he'll keep doing the best he can.

 

** _and I wanna take you down but your soul cannot be found_ **

The pretty ones never cook and the fat chicks are always on a diet, so Tommy's started going home with the needy girls, the little mamas who just want to take care of a lost, lonely boy, and he plays lost and lonely like he's Peter motherfucking Pan. Hell, whenever he starts to come on too strong and the girls get that look in their eyes, he just turns on whatever McGloin's been putting out this week and they're all over him, rubbing his back and stroking his weary brow, calling him "baby" and holding him to their pretty tits until all the pain goes away.

The good ones, they blow him once in his car and once on their pale pink sheets, then they make eggs in the morning, and nice, strong coffee. The best ones, they wash his back in the shower, blow him again, and don't ask him to come back because they're too afraid he'll say no.

Tommy sings in the morning, raps along to whatever's playing, sometimes croons some chick shit he picked up from last night's lady, and he's always well-fed and well-rested. It's not a bad life.

 

** _inside of me was the inside of you_ **

Testosterone poisoning all around, and this many months in she's starting to suffer from it too. Every single day is a pissing contest and it's easier to whip it out before she's challenged than to wait and be the girl because the girl can't even play their game. Reporting in to the DA wouldn't help her case any, if they ever found out, so it's best they don't. DA Belicheck fed her some line about strong women in a man's world and she didn't exactly fall for it--Canoe U taught her better than that--but she liked it, likes to play that card, so she agreed. Take down some jackasses who can't or won't play by the rules because rulebreakers spoil it for us all, that works for her.

Working with those same jackasses to take down the criminals, the bottom of the barrel, the scum of the earth, that works for her more, and she's not sure what she thinks about that. Rose is a renegade, Rodriguez is a pervert, McGloin is the stereotype of a kid who could have gone bad or gone cop, Gronbeck is a big kid who thinks this is all a game, and Drake, well, Drake is about as bad as the slime they arrest, and each and every one of them thinks she's the girl, maybe their girl, and neither option is okay by her.

She slams on her brakes and the mascara brush flies out of her hand leaving a streak across the mirror on her visor. She was done with her eyes, anyway, so she flips off the boy in front of her with one hand and pulls out her lipstick with the other. Play the red-mouthed girl and it's all that much more effective when she displays the brass balls. Girl her ass, Carla Merced is all woman.


End file.
